


Meadows of Gold

by xahra99



Series: Crusade [16]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Heist, Middle Ages, Middle East, Post-Canon, Treasure Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 05:32:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13710888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: A boy and his friend steal something of value from the legendary Assassins. Amends must be made, despite all obstacles. A tale of the Assassins.





	Meadows of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a standalone one-shot set in my Crusades timeline. Altair is Grand Master, Malik is his second, and Abbas is an ally, not an enemy. All comments welcome!

“She’s not coming.” Hasan leaned against the door and wiped his sweating hands upon his robe. “This is never going to work.”

“She’s just old,” said ‘Isa. “Old people move slowly.”

“Somebody’s going to see us!” protested Hasan.

“What happens if they do?”

“You know what.” Hasan edged into the shadows beneath the crumbling lintel. “Perhaps you don’t value your skin, but I rather like mine.”

‘Isa said nothing, though he glanced back over his shoulder into the square. The courtyard was empty. He saw no sign of the city guards, Fat Hamid, or his gang.  

The widow’s door remained firmly closed.

Hasan frowned. The property was spacious for an old woman living alone, but it wasn’t that large. The delay gave his guilt time to rise to the surface of his mind, where it floated like a drowned corpse. “Perhaps she’s deaf. It doesn’t matter. She’s not coming.”

“She’s coming,” said ‘Isa. “Try again.”

“Why me?”

“You’ve got an honest face.”

Hasan raised his hand and knocked again, fingers curled tight within his sweating palms. He was scared that the widow would appear and more frightened that she wouldn’t. They’d spent the last year running out of law-abiding options, and ‘Isa’s scheme was the best of a handful of bad plans. 

Flakes of faded paint drifted to the ground as they listened to the echoes of Hasan’s knock fade away.

“She’s not there,” Hasan said.

“She’s just hiding.”

Hasan frowned. “Why in God’s name would she do that?”

‘Isa pressed his ear against the sun-warmed wooden door. An oriel window glared down at them like a disapproving eye. “Perhaps she’s shy?”

Hasan sighed. He leant towards the door, tilted his head, and listened. He heard nothing but the nervous rhythm of his own heart, though if he listened closely, he could fool himself that the sound was the tapping of a stick on packed-earth floors. He withdrew, shaking his head. “Perhaps, _ya khara_.”

‘Isa drew back and punched Hasan’s arm. “Do you have a better idea, _ya kalb_?”

“I told you,” Hasan said. “We should have tried the glass eye trick- “

The door swung open.

Hasan stumbled over the threshold, slamming both palms against the door-frame just in time to prevent himself toppling into the old woman just inside the casement. The widow took one unsteady step backwards.

Hasan cleared his throat. “Grandmother-” he said, deepening his voice to gravel in the hope that he would pass for an older and more trustworthy man. 

The widow blinked up at him with yellowed eyes. As ‘Isa elbowed Hasan in the ribs he saw the sunlight reflecting from her opalescent lenses. Hasan had hoped that their shabby robes would pass for travel-stained-messenger clothing. Now he realized that there was no point in disguise. The old woman was blind.

The old woman reached up and pulled her headscarf across her face. Hasan averted his eyes hastily, blinking back tears from his streaming eyes. His gaze swept past her into the house.

The hall was neat as a pin. The low ceiling rose into a series of cool, shadowy rooms. Gauze curtains billowed at each window. Pierced wooden grilles sealed each aperture, allowing the occupant to see without being seen. The air smelt of wood-wax and of cedar. Dust motes twinkled in the late afternoon sun.  Hasan caught a blurred impression of glazed tiles and low ceilings with carved, heavy beams before the old woman reached behind her and tugged a tasselled curtain down to block his view.

‘Isa stepped forwards, switching roles without prompting. “Grandmother,” he said as Hasan coughed. “We bring grave news. Your grandson’s been captured by al-Afdal’s army.”

His words struck the widow like a lance.  She trembled. The scarf slipped from her hand, revealing henna-orange hair with a broad grey stripe each side of her parting. Her eyes brimmed with tears. Hasan and ‘Isa exchanged tense glances as they waited for the howls and ululations that would surely follow. Instead the old woman pulled herself upright with a shudder. “Is he alive?” she whispered.

“Barely,” Hasan said.

The widow’s voice was faint. “Have you come from Damascus?”

“Two days ago,” said ‘Isa.

“So far! You don’t sound old enough.”

“We may be young,” Hasan said, improvising, “but we’ve seen much. We must hurry, grandmother. There isn’t much time.”

“What do you need?”

Hasan looked at ‘Isa and saw his friend’s eyes brighten. Neither of them had thought that it would be this easy. “Money, grandmother,” he said.

She lifted the scarf again and peered at Hasan through one clouded brown eye. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Hasan dug into his sash and produced their secret weapon, a gold _tiraz_ band torn from Yaqub ibn al-Nagira’s robe the night before Al-Aziz Uthman raised his army.  He handed the scrap of embroidered cloth to Umm Yaqub. She raised the band to her eyes, rubbed the silk between her thumb and forefinger and finally sniffed the strip of cloth.  “This is my son’s,” she said. “How did you come by his token?”

“He handed it to us himself,” Hasan said. “At night. Nobody saw. He made us swear to carry word to you in Jerusalem. Alas-” He glanced up at the lattice of dusty rafters, seeking inspiration for his next sentence. “it took us longer than we expected to escape al-Afdal’s armies. God willing, your son will still live when we return.”

“God willing.” Umm Yaqub’s fingers scraped Hasan’s palm like withered twigs as she passed the _tiraz_ band back to him. “How much?”

“Ten dinars.” ‘Isa said as Hasan tucked the scrap of cloth back into his sleeve.

Umm Yaqub’s head swung from Hasan to ‘Isa. “Wait here,” she said.   

The widow shuffled off through the tasselled curtain, moving with the arthritic patience of the aged. The sound of her slippers shuffling along the tiled floor reminded Hasan painfully of his grandmother Umm Sa’ad. He shifted uneasily as he wrestled with his conscience. These were hard times. What could one old woman do with hoarded gold? It was far better for them to put her savings to good use.

‘Isa elbowed him in the ribs. “Do you think she’s got the money?”

Hasan shrugged. “She’s gone to fetch something.”

‘Isa glanced around beneath lowered lashes, pricing the furnishings with an experienced eye. “There must be richer widows in Jerusalem. There’s a merchant’s widow living by the Bab Ourika gate.”

“Maybe,” Hasan said, “but rich widows have guards.”

“True.” ‘Isa tilted his head. “Be quiet. She’s coming.” 

Umm Yaqub pushed the woven curtain aside. She was a little out of breath, as if she’d paid a price for even the short walk into the next room. She clutched a sack of evil-smelling camel-leather to her chest with henna-stained fingers. Smears of kohl marked her cheeks. She wiped her eyes with the back of one hand and pressed the bag into ‘Isa’s arms with the other. “Will this be enough?”

‘Isa took the bag. He staggered and would have dropped the sack if Hasan hadn’t slid a hand beneath the bulging bag to support its weight. The bag was far heavier than he’d expected. ‘Isa loosened the flap and peered inside. “God be praised!”

Hasan looked over ‘Isa’s shoulder and saw a heap of gold. Hammered coin, chains and bracelets gleamed amongst the stinking leather, hoarded for a rainy day. The shining pile banished all of Hasan’s misgivings. The widow’s son was probably dead. She didn’t need this cash.

Umm Yaqub gazed at them anxiously. The creased skin of her forehead folded into worried knots. “Will that be enough?”

“More than enough, Grandmother,” Hasan said hoarsely.

Umm Yaqub nodded. She tucked the end of her faded scarf across her shoulder. Then she turned with slow dignity, pushed aside the tasselled curtain, and vanished into the shadowy cavern of the house.

‘Isa slung the sack over his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said.

Coins chimed inside the bag as they stepped back out onto the street. Hasan dragged the door closed behind them. The sagging hinges made the task considerably harder than it should have been.  Hasan caught himself thinking that a few moments of work with a lathe and a folded-leather shim would have made the widow’s house much more secure. He banished the idea and nudged ‘Isa as they set off across the square. “What will you do with your half?”

‘Isa grinned. “Brother,” he said, “this is just the start.”

Hasan listened to the coins jingle with every one of ‘Isa’s steps. “We could try the glass-eye-trick- “

“Forget that. We could buy some good fake gems.”

“Too risky.” Hasan shook his head. “We’d have to leave the city.”

“We could send money back,” ‘Isa said with relentless optimism.

“But we don’t know anything about gems.”

“Then we’ll just have to find some pilgrims who know even less than us!” ‘Isa slung an arm around Hasan’s shoulder.

Hasan pushed him off, his mind alive with possibilities. The roads were relatively safe these days so long as you weren’t near Damascus. They could leave Jerusalem, keep moving so that nobody knew that they were up to. He’d heard of a money-changing trick he could pull with a few _fals_. It might be less lucrative, but he wasn’t sure that he could live with scamming money from old ladies.

They were so distracted by the possibilities afforded by a life of crime that neither of them noticed the city guards until they were close enough to smell the cloves lacing the soldier’s breath.  

The guards wore al-Aziz Uthman’s livery and matching grim expressions. The closest man poked ‘Isa’s bag. “What are you two doing?”

‘Isa froze like a lamb in lantern-light. Hasan grabbed his friend’s arm before he could run and give them both away. “Just wait,” he hissed, grasping his courage with both hands. He couldn’t afford to be arrested. “I can talk us out of this.”

‘Isa’s face was a mask. “You’d better,” he hissed.

“Speak, boy!”

Hasan squared his thin shoulders and looked up at the guards. “We were sent to fetch the ransom for Yaqub ibn al-Nagira,” he said innocently. “From Damascus.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed suspiciously beneath the gleaming brim of his helmet. “Who sent you?”

Hasan shrugged. “Some foreign mercenary.”

“His name?”

“He didn’t tell me. And I couldn’t pronounce it even if he did.”

The guard scowled. Hasan knew that he’d make no more than a passing attempt at verifying their information. “How goes the battle?”

“Badly,” Hasan said. He had no idea. To him, there was little difference between al-Afdal, al-Aziz Uthman, or any one of Salah al-din’s seventeen sons.

The guard scratched his chin. “That’s funny,” he said in measured tones. “We had a message two days ago saying that al-Adil came down from the Jezira to broker a peace. The fighting’s been over for a week. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you, if you’d come straight from Damascus?

‘Isa gulped. Hasan grabbed for his friend’s sleeve, hoping for some way of salvaging the situation, but ‘Isa dodged his grip and ducked beneath the soldier’s outstretched arms.

Hasan gauged the expression on the soldier’s faces and realized that there was nothing he could do to save this. As he turned to follow ‘Isa, the guards gave chase. As Hasan began to gather speed, he saw Umm Yaqub standing in the open door of her ramshackle house and staring after him with wide, half-blind eyes.

Hasan fled.

He ran down the labyrinth of narrow streets after ‘Isa. They darted from bright sunlight to shadows as they headed deeper into the souks. Overhanging balconies and striped shop awnings cast palls of shade. Hasan’s bare feet slapped on cool flagstones and scorched on baking brick. He hit a wall as ‘Isa turned, bounced off and carried on, racing down an alley too narrow for two men to walk abreast. Behind him somebody shouted “Stop!”

The part of Hasan’s brain that wasn’t currently gibbering in panic wondered if that ever worked.

They ran on. ‘Isa’s back drew closer as he struggled beneath the weight of the widow’s sack, but ‘Isa was a year older than Hasan and a hands’ breadth or so taller. Hasan still couldn’t catch him. He had to hope the soldiers were even slower than he was. He dared not look back. 

The alley they were following ended abruptly at the end of a narrow street lined with one-room workshops. Hasan heard the soldiers shout behind them. ‘Isa did not break stride. He slithered between a wagon and the alley wall and hurled himself over the counter of a shoe-maker’s shop. The shoemaker rose to his feet with a shoe in one hand and an awl in the other. He swatted at ‘Isa with the half-made shoe. ‘Isa ducked, hit the curtain at the back of the shop full-on and vanished into the street at the back.

Hasan followed. He jumped onto the counter easily enough and landed facing the angry proprietor. The merchant jabbed at Hasan’s legs with the awl, and Hasan leapt over his arm and landed on the bench behind them. Soft leather squashed beneath his feet as he ran along the wood. Scraps of leather and trailing laces flew everywhere as the shopkeeper slapped him with the shoe in his left hand.

Hasan would have found the sight funny if he hadn’t been the one pursued. He couldn’t afford to slow down. Last year, they might have escaped with a beating. This year, aged fourteen and caught with stolen gold, they’d be lucky to lose only a few fingers to the executioner’s knife. He shoved the man aside with all the strength he could muster. The merchant stumbled. Hasan followed ‘Isa into the backstreets behind the shops.

It was a close chase. But Jerusalem had always been a good city for thieves. The city had a thousand tiny alleyways, four gates, and hundreds of flat-roofed houses. The dog-legged alleyways were made for street chases; a twisting maze of passageways that led to labyrinthine souks or wide courtyards crowded with pilgrims too pious to notice if someone swiped a purse or two.

Hasan and ‘Isa knew every secret square and every dead-end street. They knew where the coopers stored their barrels in piles just the right height to allow a quick exit onto the rooftops and which haystacks were large enough to conceal a small body. The guards; taller, slower, clad in scale armour and carrying heavy weapons, stood no chance.

Hasan and ‘Isa ran until their lungs were bursting. Then they loped up a flight of shallow steps that led to a quiet yard tucked between a cluster of workshops at the back of the weavers’ district. Hasan collapsed on a pile of hay. ‘Isa dropped the bag on the flagstones with a clatter and rested his hands on his knees as he panted.

“Do you think we lost them?” he asked once he had recovered his breath.

Hasan tiled his head. A water-seller cried out in the street behind them. Far above, he heard the clatter of pigeon’s wings and the cry of an eagle. “I think so.”         

“That was close.”

“Too close,” Hasan agreed.

‘Isa flopped down beside Hasan and yanked the widow’s bag up onto his chest. “Let’s see what we got.”

“Yeah,” somebody said from behind them. “Let’s.”

‘Isa curled himself around the bag like a cat around its tail as Skinny Tahir loped out of the shadows. Despite his name, Tahir was no leaner than Hasan or ’Isa. He was Hasan’s age, or perhaps a little younger. Children skulked from the shadows one by one behind Tahir. They wore the dust of the streets like a uniform; barefoot and threadbare.

Hasan knew them all by name. He feigned relaxation. Beside Hasan, ‘Isa slung a protective arm across the bag and did his best to disappear amongst the hay.

Tahir cocked his head. “Don’t think I don’t see you there, ‘Isa.”

‘Isa shrugged, scattering stalks. “What happened to Hamid?”

“He’s on his way,” Tahir said. He pointed at the bag under ‘Isa’s arm. “What do you two have there?”

“Groceries,” Hasan said firmly.

Tahir sucked his teeth. “Looks heavy for groceries.”

“We always eat well.” Hasan said. “Do you?”

It was a joke, if a bad one. None of them had eaten well for as long as Hasan could remember. He expected Tahir to snap back, but the boy just smiled.

“Always.” said a new voice.

Hasan’s heart sank. “I should have guessed,” he said.” “You two are so far up each other’s arses you can’t go anywhere without each other.”

Fat Hamid pushed past Tahir, smiling nastily. He wasn’t exactly fat, but he wasn’t as thin as most of the street children were.  There were stories about how Hamid had been skinnier than them all until he’d killed and eaten one of the other kids during a particularly harsh winter. Nobody knew if the tales were true or not. Despite the tales-or perhaps because of them-Hamid carried around a little hooked knife and made jokes about disembowelling any of the children who betrayed him. Nobody except Hamid thought his jokes were funny. 

Hasan was more scared of Hamid than he’d been of the guards.

“What’s that in the bag?” Hamid asked.

Hasan shrugged, pretending a nonchalance he didn’t feel. “None of your business.”

Hamid swaggered over to ‘Isa and kicked the widow’s sack with one bare foot. Coins chimed in the suddenly-silent courtyard. “Money, eh?” He reached into his shirt and drew out a vicious-looking dagger. “Where did you get that?”

“Who knows where,” Hasan said, “doing who-knows-what.”

Hamid waved the knife at him. “Shut up, Hasan. What about you ‘Isa? Going to show me what you’ve got there?”

‘Isa curled himself around the sack, presenting his knobbly spine to Hamid’s calloused toes. “Go fuck your sister, Hamid.”

Hamid curled his lip and drew back his foot. The air filled with straw and dust. Hasan heard ‘Isa yelp. “Tell us where you got it.”

‘Isa wiped his bloody mouth with one hand and clutched the bag with the other.  Hasan lunged at Hamid. The other boy retreated just in time and all Hasan got was a mouthful of straw. He felt a sudden sharp pain as Hamid ground his heel into the small of his back. ‘Isa floundered across the straw towards them, but Hamid twisted away, waving his knife, by the time ‘Isa reached them.

 “You can shut your mouth, Hamid,” ‘Isa yelled. “We’re going to be rich. And once we are, you and all your gang can suck our cocks!”

“In God’s name,” Hasan hissed, “shut up.”

Hamid tossed his knife from hand to hand, though he only did it twice and rather slowly. “Money, you say? You haven’t left the gang, you know. You’re still part of it. And that means your money belongs to me.” He held out his free hand. “Pass it over.”

“No!” Both boys spoke in unison.

Fat Hamid’s eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

Hasan felt his stomach twist. He’d fought Hamid a couple of times and watched him beat up a dozen other kids. None of the fights had ended well. He hoped this time would be different.

“We said no!” ‘Isa shouted. His assertion would have sounded more impressive if his voice hadn’t quavered at the last second.

Hamid shrugged cocked his head. A couple of the kids crept forwards. “Why bother?” he asked. “You know what’s going to happen.”

Hasan stood, struggling for purchase on the straw. “Maybe not,” he said trying to sound cool and collected. “Things are changing, Hamid!”

Hamid flipped the knife in his hand again. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” he said. “I think that things are going to be _exactly_ the same as they have always been...”

Hasan balled his fists. Then he heard a sound like a hundred bags of clinking coins as the guards who had been chasing them rushed into the square.

Twelve pairs of dark eyes flicked away from Hasan and fixed upon the guards. The shortest of the soldiers was two heads taller than the tallest of the children. They were armoured like the golems that the Kurdish scholars spoke of in their synagogues, and they moved with the same ponderous purpose.

“Soldiers!” Hamid shouted. “Go!”

The children scattered. Hasan dived under the outspread arms of a ponderous helmeted soldier and leapt headfirst into the hay. He burrowed through the prickly, sweet-smelling mass and burst out of the pile on the other side of the courtyard. The narrow mouth of a stone-paved alley stretched out invitingly before him. Hasan shot to his feet and ran.

“Stop!” a guard shouted behind them. “Stop, in God’s name!”

Somebody slammed into him from the side. A flailing elbow punched him in the guts. Hasan looked around, expecting a soldier, but he found himself running beside Fat Hamid. The older boy had dropped his knife. There was no sign of ‘Isa.

“This is…your fault!” spat Hamid.

Hasan could not spare the breath to reply.

The sound of leather soled boots echoed behind them as they reached the alley mouth. Hamid turned left. Hasan went right. The boots chasing them decided to follow Hasan.

Hasan cursed his luck as he sprinted down the street. The tips of his fingers tingled. A sharp pain stabbed his side as he ran as fast as he could. He reviewed his options as he ran. There were few. The guard was far too close for him to risk dodging down the side-streets, and there was no time to climb towards the rooftops.

As he reached the end of the street he saw a pair of wide, straight alleys stretching to right and left. Both streets had been cleared to allow the easy passage of donkeys, which made them both bad choices.  The soldier voice echoed behind him. “Give up! You know that you can’t hide!”

Hasan had no intention of surrender, but he was already tired. His heart thudded against his breastbone. He knew that he’d never make it to the end of either lane without the soldier seeing him.

He chose the left-hand alley simply because more doors opened onto it and darted from door to door, trying the locks. The first door was locked. So was the second. Hasan raced to the third door and tugged at the heavy bronze knocker. The gate was three times as tall as he was, and tightly closed. Hasan frantically tried the postern gate. To his surprise, it opened.

Hasan did not wait for an invitation. He leapt over the threshold. Once he was safely inside he turned back and caught the edge of the door, holding it closed with white knuckles so it did not swing back and betray his presence to the guard. He glanced behind him and saw a wide and empty courtyard. So far, he thought, so good.

Hasan heard the soldier’s footsteps follow him to the end of the street. The man hesitated for a moment. Hasan imagined his helmeted head swinging from side to side. Then he heard the guard began to try the doors.

The soldier started at the top of Hasan’s street, which gave Hasan a few seconds. He reached for the heavy bolt on the inside of the door. The latch was well oiled, and it slid across far easily than he had expected.  He had just lowered the latch when he heard the next-but-one door rattle. Heavy footsteps stalked the street outside.     

Hasan heard the guard knock on the gate of the next house. There was no answer. Hasan backed away from the door, deeper into the courtyard. He tried to hold his breath. When that failed-he was still out of breath from his run-he tried to breath quietly. He expected the guard to try the gate next. If the soldier heard Hasan, he would order the household to open the door.

Nothing happened. The guard’s footsteps padded right by the door and down the street to another building. This time, someone answered. Hasan heard the interrogative tone of a question. He heard someone reply, and then he heard the soldier marching away, checking doors one by one as he went.

Hasan sighed, took another step backwards and stumbled as his bare feet sank ankle-deep in sand. He caught his breath and looked around.

He stood in a wide courtyard surrounded by low sprawling buildings. The marble floor had been taken up. The circular platform in the centre where a fountain would usually be found had been replaced by a circular, sandy arena. Upright poles with cushions tied around them were scattered across the sand. A rack of padded swords stood in one corner of the courtyard. Laths and plaster showed through the stucco behind the weapons where carelessly-aimed blades had gouged the walls.

The courtyard had room for half a dozen fighters to duel comfortably, but in the heat of the day the courtyard was empty. Hasan counted himself lucky. He scratched at the sweat drying in his hair and threw a punch at the closest of the training dummies. His fist sank into the mats without a trace. The dummy did not even move.

“We’re closed,” somebody said.

Hasan nearly jumped out of his skin.

The courtyard wasn’t quite empty. A man sat cross-legged in the shadows of the weapons rack, drawing with a brush on a flattened piece of scraped-thin hide. He wore a black robe over a white tunic. He never once raised his eyes, but Hasan had the feeling that he was being watched.

He wondered why the man hadn’t called out to the guards. Then he wondered why he was drawing in an empty courtyard rather than fighting in one of the civil wars that had consumed the lands after the death of Salah al-din. Then he realised that the man’s left arm ended just above the elbow.

The man put down his pen. “Are you deaf? he inquired.

“No, I mean-I’m not deaf.”

“Come back later.” His eyes said: _don’t bother._

Hasan backed towards the door. He had to cross the circle to get there. The sand stung his bare feet. He thanked God that the black-robed man didn’t seem inclined to call the guards. Hasan supposed that weapons schools got a lot of unannounced visitors.

Hasan had reached the far side of the training circle when he heard the door rattle. He froze. After a few seconds the sand burned through the tough skin on the soles on his feet and forced him to jump onto the shattered marble flagstones. The door rattled again. Somebody outside called something that Hasan couldn’t hear.

The black-robed man tilted his head and looked at Hasan sideways in a way that reminded Hasan of the kites that picked through Jerusalem’s refuse piles, as if he was deciding whether Hasan was carrion or prey.  “Open the door while you’re there,” he said.

Hasan shook his head. He backed away from the door and the man both and felt his back come up hard against the huge limestone blocks that formed the wall. “Don’t let them in!”

“That depends who it is,” the man said mildly.

Hasan did not bother to lie, mostly because he couldn’t think of anything plausible to say. “The city guards! I didn’t do anything!” He held out empty hands. “They’ll cut off my fingers!”

“Soldiers don’t cut off fingers for nothing. What did you do?”

“I didn’t harm anyone!”

The man just looked at him.

“My friend-we stole something! I don’t have it! Please! They chased me from the other side of the bazaar!”

The black-robed man studied Hasan for a moment. Then he gestured with his chin towards the low arched doorway in the centre of the courtyard façade. “Go inside,” he said. “There’s water.”

Hasan did not need telling twice. Sand flew beneath his feet as he hurried inside. The door opened easily. and he found himself in a long room, dark and cool, with a vaulted ceiling and small windows grilled with metal bars. There was no furniture save for a scarred old table in the centre of the room. Several empty clay oil-lamps were scattered across the table. An ewer of water and a few glasses stood in the centre of the table. A smaller door in the right-hand corner of the room looked as if it led upstairs towards more comfortable apartments. Hasan checked the door in case he needed a quick exit, but the door was securely locked. Hasan tried the lock anyway, but he quickly realised that it would take him more than a few minutes to break open.

Hasan scanned the corners of the room just in case he’d missed something, but there was nowhere else to hide. He went over to the table, poured himself water, and drank. As soon as the water touched his throat he became aware of just he thirsty he had become, and emptied two more glasses before he set the ewer down. Thirst receded, replaced by a pounding headache. He washed his face and hands with the remnants of the water. The dust on his skin and clothes mixed to a sweaty paste. He scraped off the worst of the dirt and wiped it on his robes.

There was no sound from outside. Hasan was just about to try the door again when the black-robed man appeared.

“They’ve gone,” he said.

Hasan swallowed. “Why did you let me in?”

“I thought that you were someone else. Since you’re not him, I have some business to attend to.” He drew a key from his sash, unlocked the door and disappeared upstairs. His voice echoed down the stairwell. “Wait here.”

There was no more water left. It did not take Hasan long to become bored. After a while he wandered out into the courtyard. He went over to the mats where the man had been drawing and squatted down to study the parchment.

It was a map.

The parchment stretched wide as two spread arms. Much of the surface remained the unbleached colour of tanned sheep’s hide. The tea-coloured skin suggested arid land. The map’s left side was stained bright cerulean blue. Thread-fine rivers linked the two, braiding into deltas at each estuary. Inland sketched mountains marched ruler-straight across the parchment.  

Hasan’s grandmother had taught him enough geography that he recognized Damascus, Jerusalem, and Aleppo. A single speck of gold marked the Dome of the Rock. Hasan reached down and traced deltas and mountains with one dirty finger. He had the unsettling feeling that if he looked hard enough he might see the training ground with himself in the corner, studying an infinitesimal map.

Hasan had never seen anything so fine. He thought that even the materials alone might be worth as much as the gold in ‘Isa’s sack. He scraped his thumbnail across the sequin that marked the Dome. The sequin did not loosen.

Hasan glanced around. He saw no sign of the black-robed man. Just in case, he stood up, backed against the wall, and examined the top story of the buildings. He saw nothing except a flutter of white wings between the wind-catchers that jutted from the roof. Pigeons, perhaps?

He crouched back down and examined the fine-sketched lines. The sequin had to be gold-leaf, and the painted sea was lapis. The map had to be worth a bit of money. The prospect was too tempting for Hasan to resist. Who knew if ‘Isa was still alive, or had the gold? He might as well make something from the day.

The map was weighted down by random objects-oil-lamps, an inkwell, an empty teapot. Hasan lifted each object carefully from the corners of the map. The parchment sprang in and curled in at the edges. It was long as two arm’s lengths and half an arm wide. Easy to carry.

Hasan rolled the map into a tight bundle. He tucked the roll into his sleeve beneath the stripes of yellow fabric stitched in place of gold-embroidered _tiraz_ bands and turned towards the door. He didn’t bother to be quiet as he opened the latch. Who was going to stop him? The cripple?

He walked out of the door with the map cradled against his chest and headed home, orientating himself by the sight of minarets and the smell of the city’s different districts. The Christian churches smelt of incense; the blacksmiths’ shops smelt of hot quenched metal. The hammams puffed clouds of scented steam. The tanneries just stank. Hasan sniffed his collar and realized that he smelt terrible himself. His hair stuck up in sweaty tufts. He hoped the parchment didn’t absorb too much stale-sweat-stench. He knew he wasn’t doing the map any favours, but he dared not walk around with the parchment in open view just in case a particularly observant guard realized that he shouldn’t have it.  

Hasan pushed through the crowd of late-afternoon shoppers to a stall selling bundles of sweet-smelling mint. He pulled off a handful as he passed the counter and popped a few leaves in his mouth. He tucked the rest into his sleeve as he took a short-cut through the courtyard of the al-Aqsa mosque, skirting the ruins of the Stables of Solomon. The tumbled stones, scoured free of vegetation and refugee tents, reminded Hasan of the many nights his family had spent sleeping there when they first fled to Jerusalem from the country to escape the _Franj_ armies. Things had changed a lot since. Hasan hoped they would change more.

He sniffed his armpits again. A dowager walking by scowled at him and pulled her child away. Hasan ignored them both. He certainly smelt like he did when he had arrived in the city. The mint that he had stolen did little to mask the aroma of his body. He needed a bath. Once he’d traded the map he’d be able to afford a real hammam. One with warm towels and soft soap, not the threadbare rags that passed for towels at the public baths. 

The sun had just begun to set, transforming Jerusalem’s limestone streets into gilded palaces and the city’s minarets into dreaming spires that stabbed the clouds, a fit location for Hasan’s fantasies of wealth. He patted the map at his side and ran down the alleys towards the house that he shared with his grandmother.

The house was empty when he arrived. Hasan climbed the stairs outside that led to the roof, searching for Umm Sa’ad, but she wasn’t there. He went down again to check the communal yard, but it wasn’t until he left the courtyard and headed back up to the roof that he saw her coming down the road with a basket of laundry on her head.

Hasan met her at the bottom of the stairs and reached out to take her basket from her. Umm Sa’ad reached out, quick as a snake. She balanced the basket on her head with one hand and slapped Hasan’s cheek with the other.

Hasan sank upon the lowest step and raised his hand to his smarting face. “What was that for?” A slap from your grandmother was something no man should suffer through, but it was impossible for him to retaliate. Umm Sa’ad, as she liked to remind him, had cleaned up after Hasan when he was still in swaddling-clothes, and she saw no reason to change her opinion of him just because he was older.

Umm Sa’ad’s kohl-lined eyes narrowed. “What do you think it was for?”

Hasan could guess. He feigned ignorance. “I don’t know.”

Umm Sa’ad folded her arms. “I’ll tell you,” she said. “Umm Bayda told me at the laundry that Umm Dinar said to her at the well that today someone robbed Umm Yaqub of all her savings. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that now, would you, _hafid_?” She glared at Hasan accusingly, as if she expected him to produce the stolen gold straight from his robe pocket.

Hasan made the mistake of arguing with his grandmother. “ _Sitt_ \- “

Umm Sa’ad slapped him again. There was no strength to her blow, but her fingers were very bony. It was like being beaten with twigs. “Don’t you ‘granny’-me. I don’t mind you stealing, but not from other Kurds. And never from old ladies. You must give it back.”

“But I don’t have it!”

“Then who does?”

“’Isa.” _If he’s still alive. And not in the emir’s prison._

Umm Sa’ad grunted. “That boy is a bad influence.”

Hasan knew that Umm Sa’ad did not approve of ‘Isa’s family. “ _Sitt_ , he’s my friend.”

Umm Sa’ad grunted. “Maybe. But no friend leads you down such crooked paths.”

“He brings me money.” Hasan said.

“We don’t need that sort of money.” Umm Sa’ad said. “You must go and get Umm Yaqub’s money back from ‘Isa-” she spat his name like a curse, “and return all of it to Umm Yaqub. Then that old woman will at least have some money to keep her safe in her old age, as she has no living sons.”

Umm Yaqub could not have been more than ten years older than Umm Sa’ad was herself, but Hasan knew better than to mention that to his grandmother. He held up his hands placatingly. The map fell into his armpit. Hasan cursed-quietly, in case his bad language earned him another slap, and unrolled the map on the ground in front of Umm Sa’ad. _This, at least_ , he thought, _should keep her quiet._ “I found more than the gold. We can sell this for a good price. Do you know any antiques-dealers?”

Umm Sa’ad silenced Hasan with a gesture. She slid the bucket from her head and bent down, grunting a little with the effort. “Where did you get this?”

“I found it in a weapons school over in the Middle District,” Hasan said.

Umm Sa’ad stared at him. “I know the place,” she said faintly, tracing a curved line embossed upon the parchment in the map’s corner. 

Hasan looked up in surprise. He had not expected his old grandmother to know the locations of the weapons schools in any quarter. As far as he knew, Umm Sa’ad’s steps rarely deviated from her well-worn routes between the mosque, the bath-house, the well, and the laundry. “You do?”

Umm Sa’ad nodded grimly. “Yes. What have you done, _hafid_?”

Hasan looked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You made a big mistake,” She slapped him again. “That’s what.”

“It’s just a map!” Hasan protested.

“It’s not the map, it’s _whose_ map.”

“I don’t understand.” Hasan was thoroughly confused. “It’s only a map.”

Umm Sa’ad squatted down beside the square of parchment. She grasped Hasan’s robe and pulled him down beside her, stabbing a bony finger at the curved lines sketched like a sextant on the page. “This map belongs to the Assassins,” she hissed. “Did you speak to anyone there?”

Hasan felt a chill hand clutch his heart. He’d heard of the Assassins; grim figures from tales told round flickering fires. Like jinn and ghosts, he’d met men who swore they had seen one, but he had never seen any trace of them himself. He hadn’t thought that they existed. “There was one man- “

“There would have been,” Umm Sa’ad rocked back and forth. “Did he wear a white robe?”

Hasan narrowed his eyes and searched his memory. “Black,” he said. “Over white.”

 “That’s worse,” Umm Sa’ad said, glancing at the rooftops. “That means a _dai_ or a _rafiq_.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Assassin leaders,” said Umm Sa’ad. “Didn’t anybody stop you?”

“I just left,” Hasan said. “I didn’t see anyone.”

Umm Sa’ad snorted. “Nobody sees the Assassins. Until it’s far too late.” She flicked Hasan’s ear with one horny henna-tipped fingernail. “They could creep in right now and you wouldn’t even see them until they slit your throat. They killed Majd Addin three years ago. I saw it. I was there.”

Hasan reached for the map. He folded it into a cylinder of parchment and tucked it back into his sleeve. “ _Sitt_ , I can solve this.”

She looked up at him with one yellowed eye. “How do you plan to do that? Majd Addin had many guards.”

“I’ll sell the map. We can leave Jerusalem-”

“Have you not been listening to what I have been saying?” Umm Sa’ad scraped up a handful of earth from the floor and poured it over her head. “I have no grandson. If you had taken the time to ask anyone on that street- “

“I didn’t have time! The guards were right behind me!”

“You should have taken your chances with the guards!”

Hasan glanced nervously at the rooftops, which remained empty. “I didn’t know!”

 “Now you do.” Umm Sa’ad rolled her eyes and reached for another handful of dirt.  “God knows, I should have taught you better. The Assassins will kill you, and I’ll be all alone. I won’t even have gold like Umm Yaqub’s to keep me warm. Just one poor old woman, all alone and friendless in this war-torn city. If only you father hadn’t gotten himself killed in the emir’s wars. Such a dreamer, he was. You must take after him. God knows your poor mother was a sensible enough woman.” She closed her eyes and sprinkled the dirt into her hair.

Hasan slipped the map from his sleeve and waved it in his grandmother’s face. “All right!” he said. “I’ll take it back!”

Umm Sa’ad cracked open one eye. Dust clung to her veil. “So,” she said dryly, “the boy still has some sense.”

Hasan was not sure he agreed. “I just want a better life,” he said, gesturing to the small houses surrounding their courtyard. “For me. For us.”

“Stealing from the Assassins is not going to make our lives better.” said Umm Sa’ad. “Shorter, perhaps.”

“I said I’ll take it back!”

“Good.” Umm Sa’ad nodded. “Then you will find your friend and bring Umm Yaqub back her gold.”

“ _Sitt,_ I will.” _Assuming I survive._

“You’d better.” Umm Sa’ad said. “God go with you.” She glanced up at the rooftops and enfolded Hasan in an unexpected hug.  “Don’t leave it any later. You don’t want to do this in the dark.”

Hasan didn’t want to deal with the Assassins at any time of day. He nodded to his grandmother and slunk out into the street.

Leaving the safety of his house was like throwing off a warm blanket. The city seemed a much more sinister place that it had earlier in the day. Above Hasan’s head, the sun sank in a glory of saffron and gold. The shadows lengthened as the sun gilded the city’s limestone walls.

Hasan kept to the edges of the courtyards and cast suspicious glances at the rooftops. A flap of white made him shiver, but it was just a woman hanging out laundry. Why had he not noticed before that the city was so crowded? Between wind-catchers, chimneys, flags, turrets and roof-gardens, there were far too many places to hide.

Hasan had heard that Assassins did not kill civilians, but none of the stories said exactly what they did to people who stole from them. No thief survived to tell their tale.

He unsuccessfully attempted to banish the thought from his mind as he crept towards the Assassins’ Bureau. He would have to return the map to the Assassins first. Then he’d go after ‘Isa and the gold. After all, annoyed as she was, Umm Sa’ad was unlikely to kill him.

He glanced up at the roofs again but saw nothing on the rooftops apart from a few flocks of slate-grey pigeons and one of the emir’s guards, who watched Hasan suspiciously for a street for turning away.

He took a short-cut through the haberdasher’s bazaar, feet treading hollowed flagstones that had been old a hundred years before. The souk was crowded, which reassured Hasan somewhat. He felt safe within the crowds of water-sellers and sherbet stalls, among weavers and dyers and tailors and shoppers of every description. Hasan kept a sharp eye out as he walked. He knew that ‘Isa hung around the souks, but he was unlikely to catch sight of his friend in the crowds. He might have had a chance if ‘Isa had been particularly tall or richly-clothed, but finding one slight and ragged boy in the bedlam of Jerusalem’s market was like finding a needle in a haystack.

He was so focused on scanning the rooftops for Assassins that he did not notice Fat Hamid until the boy’s knife pricked his side.

“Hasan ibn Sa’ad,” Hamid smiled unpleasantly. “What a surprise. Who’d have thought you’d find the guts to drag yourself back here again?”

Hasan froze. He became acutely aware of the map concealed in his sleeve, but Hamid showed no sign of noticing it. He looked frantically around for an avenue of escape, but Hamid’s knife jabbed his side. Hasan felt a trickle of blood run down beneath his ribs as Hamid continued. “Down here, eh? You and me, we need to talk.”

“Whatever you say,” Hasan chose diplomacy. If he pretended to agree with Hamid, perhaps he could lull the other boy into a false sense of security and manage to escape.

“No guts at all, eh?” Hamid sneered. He twisted the knife. “Perhaps we’ll find out.” He jerked his head down a small alley. “This way.”

The alley opened on a small covered courtyard stuffed with bales of cloth. Hasan knew the place. A tabby cat curled on one bale looked at them and yawned, but took off as soon as Hamid waved the knife at it. Hasan twisted away and looked around. Nothing in the room was big enough to pick up and throw at Hamid. The courtyard was one of ‘Isa’s lairs, but his friend was nowhere to be seen.

Hamid settled down on a bale of cloth, blocking Hasan’s exit. “Why are you here, Hamid? I don’t have the gold.”

Hamid folded his arms. “I want to cut a deal,” he said.

Hasan blinked. This was not what he had been expecting. “What?”

“I’ve been talking to the Old Quarter gangs,” Hamid said. He stared at Hasan as if he expected him to challenge him, which was ridiculous. Fat Hamid was half again Hasan’s size. Hasan stared back uncomprehendingly.

“Oh, come on,” Hamid said. “Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one? We can’t stay kids stealing from the market stalls forever. If the emir’s guards catch us now they’ll throw us in jail or cut off our fingers. The _Awlad al-Harb_ already said they’ll take us, but we’ll have more respect if I bring as many of you with me as I can. This is our chance to make our marks. If ‘Isa and you come the rest will follow. Out of all of them, you two are the only ones with guts.”

It wasn’t what Hasan had been expecting. “What’s in it for us?”

“For now, protection,” Hamid said. “Later, gold.  The _Awlad al-Harb_ are the real thing, proper _banu sasan_. They _matter,_ Hasan. If you want to earn your money through trickery, they’re the ones you go to. How about it?”

Hasan had heard of the Banu Sasan. They were housebreakers and _sahib radk_ , thieves who waited until their victims were at prayer and crushed their heads with two smooth stones. “No thanks. I want to make a difference. I want to do things my own way.”

“What, by robbing little old ladies?”

“That’s just the start, you donkey-eared sister-fucker.” Hasan said. He saw a flicker of movement behind Hamid, and fought to keep his expression smooth. “We’ve got to raise money somehow.”

“Fine. Do what you want. Perhaps ‘Isa will be smarter. Where is he, anyway? The last time I saw him he was crawling up your arse-”

‘Isa slammed Umm Yaqub’s bag of gold into the side of Hamid’s head. “Run!”

Hasan did not need telling twice. He stuck to ‘Isa like glue, managing to turn their path towards the Middle Quarter and the Assassins’ training school. They wound up in a compound for donkeys not far from the city walls and hunkered down in the shadow of a wall. Velvet noses lipped their robes. Hasan pushed the beasts aside as gently as he could.

‘Isa slung the bag of gold at Hasan’s feet. “Glad I saved you?”

“Always,” Hasan said devoutly. If he really stared at the bag, he could see Hamid’s blood marking the hessian. “Do you think you killed him?”

“Gods, no,” ‘Isa said. “He was still moving. Why did you think I ran?”

Hasan nodded. Despite himself, he was a little glad. “You still have the gold?”

‘Isa kicked the bag. It chinked. “Of course, I do. Did you think I’d run away? Besides,” he added, “I haven’t had time to spend it yet. Was that what Hamid was after?”

“He was making me an offer. He wants to join the _Awlad al-Harb_. Wants us to come with him. Thinks they’ll welcome him that way.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Hasan said.

“Oh.” ‘Isa scratched his chin. “Well, I guess that caravan has travelled.”

Hasan nodded.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I don’t want to join the Banu Sasan.” Now, ‘Isa, listen. A lot has changed since I last saw you. You need to give me the gold back.”

“Back?” ‘Isa pushed another donkey away. “What do you mean?”

“It’s difficult. I don’t have much time.” Hasan looked up at the rapidly darkening sky. “There’s something I have to do by sunset.”

“Sunset?” ‘Isa frowned. “This all sounds like something from one of those old tales.”

Hasan wondered what the best way was to explain all that had happened. He decided to show ‘Isa the truth. He cleared the earth in front of them with a sweep of his bare foot and slid the map out of his sleeve.  “The guards chased me half across the city. I hid in an old weapons school in the Middle District. And I found this.”

‘Isa drew in his breath. “My God, Hasan. Do you know what this is?” His friend traced a finger along the parchment. “It says ‘here are the meadows of gold. A treasure map.”

Hasan peered over ‘Isa’s shoulder at the map. Lines of incomprehensible text covered the parchment. He wondered why the Assassins would have a treasure map. “I didn’t know you could read.”

“Well, I can,” ‘Isa said. He shifted uncomfortably. “A little. We went to the madrasah when my parents were alive.” He licked his finger and stroked it across the parchment. A cerulean tint stained his skin. “This is real lapis.”

Hasan shrugged, embarrassed by his own ignorance. He had stolen the map because he thought it valuable, and he could sell it for gold. He stretched out his hands. “Give it here.”

“No, let me look.” ‘Isa squinted at the text. “Some of this writing’s in _code_. Where did you get this?”

“That’s what I was saying,” Hasan said. He saw his opportunity and shuffled aside, nudging a donkey out of the way with his shoulder. His hands closed around the supple leather of Umm Yaqub’s bag. The sack seemed no lighter as far as Hasan could tell. “I took the map back to my grandmother’s. She said it came from the Assassins.”

‘Isa laughed, a short, abrupt bark. “The Assassins are a _story_.”

Hasan shook his head, remembering the unsettling feeling of being watched. “I don’t think so. Even if they are, the stories are true. I can’t steal from the Assassins, ‘Isa. I’m going to give it back.”

“What?” ‘Isa frowned. “Why?” Then he noticed that Hasan had Umm Yaqub’s gold. “Give me that.”

Hasan shook his head. “That’s the second part of my tale. Umm Sa’ad was waiting for me when I got home. She says Umm Yaqub is a friend of hers. I promised her that I’d return the gold. We don’t steal from friends.”

‘Isa’s frown deepened into a scowl “Hasan, you’re not serious?”  

Hasan nodded.

God knows, you _are_ serious. Fair enough. You keep the gold. I take this map. Is it a deal?” ‘Isa reached forwards and closed his hand around the map. Parchment crumpled.

Hasan stifled a yelp. “Are you mad? You can’t keep that. I told you, it belongs to the Assassins!”

“Far from it.” ‘Isa backed away. “I don’t believe in the Assassins. You’re trying to trick me out of money we both earned, Hasan, and if you want to, that’s your choice. This map shows the way to fields full of gold! You can keep those scraps we stole from the widow-they’re nothing compared to this!”

Hasan tucked the sack under one arm and held out his hand. “Give me the map, ‘Isa.”

‘Isa folded his arms stubbornly. “You can do what you want with that gold but I’m keeping this. If you want the map, you have to trade.”

“We’ve got to give it back,” Hasan said. “Umm Yaqub’s one of us-she knows Umm Sa’ad, or so Umm Sa’ad says.”

“Your granny’s friends with half Jerusalem.” Isa shook his head. “No deal.”

“Her son’s probably dead.” Hasan said. “Close as we can tell.”

“So what? We didn’t steal it from _your_ granny. We need that gold, Hasan. We can’ t make money unless we have money. And if we can’t make money we’ll be stuck serving Fat Hamid and the rest of his _banu sasan_ brothers until the day we die. Is that what you want? Because it’s not what I want.”

Hasan wondered why was he even bothering to argue. If ‘Isa had the map, it was his problem. It was a shame, he thought that he couldn’t just give up and leave ‘Isa to the mercies of the Assassins.  He doubted ‘Isa’s disbelief would save his friend from the Assassins’ blades. “I don’t want you to get hurt, ‘Isa,” he said, inching closer behind the cover of a slowly ambling donkey.

“That makes two of us.” ‘Isa narrowed his eyes. “What are you up to, Hasan?” He drew back as Hasan lunged for the map. “Give me the gold.”

“Give me the map. You’re being foolish, ‘Isa.”

‘Isa shook his head. “You’re the fool, Hasan.” He skipped backwards and tucked the map beneath his arm. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me,” he said, and took off at a dead run.

Hasan chased after him, but it was a lost cause. He was twenty paces behind ‘Isa before he even left the donkey park. By the time he climbed the wall. ‘Isa was nowhere to be seen. He whispered a few curses underneath his breath, which was satisfying but did not make him feel much better. 

There was, he decided, only one thing left to do.

He brought the sack to the widow’s door at sunset. She answered the door not long after his cautious knock. _Perhaps_ , Hasan thought, _she’s hoping for news_.

 “Here,” he said, picking up the bag and shoving it into her arms. “This belongs to you.”

He watched Umm Yaqub squeeze the bag between her gnarled old hands. She must have recognized the sack, for Hasan heard her breath catch as she fumbled. She raised the leather to her nose and sniffed it. “What do you mean?” she asked him at last in her cracked old voice.

Hasan had been dreading the question. “It was all a trick,” he said. “We don’t know your son.”

“But you said-” He voice was a wail that spoke of years of forlorn hope.

Hasan cut her off. “I know what we said. It wasn’t true.”

Umm Yaqub moaned.

“I’m sorry,” Hasan said sincerely. Then he turned his back and walked away, cursing himself for a coward with every step he took. He turned back once, when he was past the well, and saw her standing in the doorway, clutching the bag to her chest and staring after him with sightless eyes.

He made his way back to his grandmother’s house in a haze of self-hatred and worry. Should he chase across the city in search of ‘Isa? Was there any chance that Hasan would catch up with ‘Isa before the Assassins did? Or was ‘Isa right after all? Were the Assassins just a tale? Or had he just sabotaged his only chance at funding their freedom?

These thoughts and others chased through Hasan’s head like jackals. When he looked up, he was finally at his grandmother’s door. It was closed, though firelight shone out through the cracks and the smell of cooking wafted from inside. Umm Sa’ad had already begun to prepare the evening meal. Hasan paused for a moment outside to gather his thoughts. With luck, he thought, everything would seem better with a good meal inside him.

Hasan pushed the door open and went into the room.

To his surprise, Umm Sa’ad was not alone. ‘Isa sat next to her, crouched unhappily beside the fire. A white-robed boy a little younger than Hasan himself sat cross-legged on the mats beside ‘Isa, with a bowl of Umm Sa’ad’s _harisa_ in his hands. Next to the strange boy sat the black-robed man Hasan had last seen at the training, scraping his bowl with a piece of coarse bread. They all looked up as Hasan entered.

The stranger finished the last of his bread and handed his bowl back to Umm Sa’ad. “You’re here,” he said, as he had been expecting Hasan to turn up. “At last. Thank you, Umm Sa’ad. That was very welcome.”

“My pleasure.” Umm Sa’ad inclined her head. “Hasan, won’t you come in?”

Hasan hesitated, pinned by his grandmother’s expectant glare. He contemplated for a moment whether he could run, but discarded the idea almost immediately. He couldn’t run either far or fast enough and besides, he refused to leave Umm Sa’ad. Still, he couldn’t force himself to sit beside the fire and eat his grandmother’s home cooking like nothing on earth had happened. He might have remained standing in the doorway for ever if their guest had not cleared his throat.

“I am Malik al-Sayf, _dai_ of the Assassin Order and acting _rafiq_ of the Jerusalem Bureau for Abbas Sofian, who is presently on business. This,” he inclined his head to the white-robed boy, who was investigating Umm Sa’ad’s cooking suspiciously, “is Marîd. Are you Hasan ibn Sa’ad?”

Hasan nodded. He could not find his voice. In the silence he heard the pop and crackle of the flames as cinders drifted up into the indigo sky.

“We need to talk,” said Malik.

The charcoal snapped like breaking bones.

Hasan nodded. There was no room on the mats and he did not feel like sitting down in any case. Instead he squatted awkwardly between the fire and the door. He felt a little better with an escape route at his back, although he knew that if these Assassins were really what they claimed to be then being close to the door would not save him. And if they weren’t-well, he had other problems.

He expected Malik to say more, but the _dai_ just stared at him. Hasan saw no visible weapons, but he was certain that the man could put a knife through his eye before he reached the door.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have taken the map.”

His words fell into the silence like stones down a well. Malik made a small movement with his hand, and Hasan saw the map there, rolled up and tied with leather thongs. ‘Isa said nothing, but he shot Hasan a filthy look across the embers of the fire. His friend seemed unharmed as far as Hasan could see. Hasan was glad. Although ‘Isa had stolen the map and ignored Hasan’s warnings, Hasan couldn’t help but think that it was his fault that his friend had become involved. “I gave the money back to Umm Yaqub,” he told ‘Isa.

‘Isa winced. The Assassin looked at Hasan levelly. “That sounds like quite a tale,” he said.”

Umm Sa’ad jerked her chin at Hasan. “Go on,” she commanded. “Explain.”

Hasan could not think of any positive interpretation of the day’s events. “It’s nothing.”

“It was my idea,” protested ‘Isa.

“It seemed like an easy way to make money.” Hasan muttered. It did not escape his attention that Malik had not yet accepted his apology. The Assassins had eaten Umm Sa’ad’s food; a good omen, but he had no wish to push his luck.

“What did?” Malik inquired. Hasan got the feeling that the Assassin enjoyed making him uncomfortable, though no trace of it showed on his face. “Be out with it.”

Hasan felt a trickle of sweat run down from his hairline. Anger made him incautious. “Why do you care?” he demanded. “We’re not kings. We’re not _Franj_. Why does it worry you?”

“Your actions very much concern me,” the Assassin said. “This is our city. Salah al-din’s sons fight over the remains of his kingdom, but did you think we concerned ourselves only with great men? We do what we can to make things right.” He paused. “It’s true that we don’t usually bother with the misdeeds of boys. Your actions brought us to our attention. I’m here to ensure it doesn’t happen again. Your grandmother and your friend-” he nodded to Umm Sa’ad sitting tight-lipped by the fire “-have pleaded your case. Now it’s up to you to speak. You can tell me why you stole this money. Then you can tell me why you stole my map.”

Hasan opened his mouth to repeat excuses. As he rehearsed each sentence in his mind, he realized that no evasion or prevarication would be sufficient.  “We swindled a rich widow out of her money by pretending her son was dead,” he said.

‘Isa paled. Umm Sa’ad dropped her ladle in the _harisa._ The Assassin’s dark eyes met Hasan’s in the firelight. “Very good,” he said. “You’re truthful, at least. What about the map?”

Hasan’s rage faded abruptly to fear. “I thought I could sell it,” he muttered. “It was only a map.”

“Nothing is only what it seems.” Malik reached for the scroll and unfastened the bindings with one hand and his teeth. “There are the lands our Brotherhood has travelled. This is the _al-Franj_ Kingdom of Jerusalem, though the last man who called himself king died this summer. Though that was none of our work.” He pointed to the tiny golden done. “This is Jerusalem. People call this the centre of the world, although personally I doubt it. It’s a great place, but there are many others. The Assassins are most interested in the men who journey here. This map tells us about the lands from which these men come. It teaches us religions-the regions of the Christians and the Franks. It gives us order. Direction.  A way of thinking. An illusion, of course. But some day there will come a world that wages its wars with knowledge in place of steel and swords. And we must be ready.”

“When will that day come?”   

“Who knows?” the Assassin said.

Hasan examined the rivers sketched upon the parchment and the lines of writing that he could not read. “What does the writing say?”

“It describes each area.” The Assassin tucked his arm beneath the stump of his missing limb and shot ‘Isa a sharp glance. “The golden meadows are dried grass. It’s not a treasure map, if that’s what you think.”  

‘Isa grumbled.

“I don’t understand,” Hasan said. The map tantalised him. He longed to know more.

“Few men do,” said the Assassin. “I don’t myself. The only one who does is far from here. But that is none of your concern. Now. Let me ask you a question. What do you want?”

‘Isa blinked. “What do you mean?”

“What do you two want from life?”

“To have money, of course,” ‘Isa said, as if it was obvious. “I’d like to be rich.”

Hasan took a little longer to think it over. “Not money,” he said eventually. “Power. To care for my family. Stop anything that hurts them.” He thought of Hamid’s description of the _Banu Sasan_.  “I want to be someone who matters.”

“And if not?”

‘Isa frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What else will you do? Stealing other people’s fortunes is a poor way to make your own. If you keep bending the rules you will hurt people who don’t deserve it.  People with less even than you. What other choice do you have?”

‘Isa rolled his eyes. “Choice? Don’t make me laugh.”

“There isn’t anything for us to do,” Hasan explained. “No way to make money. But we can’t leave. The only way to make money when you don’t have any is to steal. There’s no hope of anything better. Not for us.”

The Assassin looked over at Umm Sa’ad, who nodded. “We’re Kurds. Despite Salah-al-din’s success, people here remain distrustful of our kind. There’s little work to be had here as it is. You’ve got to be apprenticed to a master and join a guild to learn a trade. Hasan’s father couldn’t afford an apprenticeship before he died, and now he is past such worries. There are too many outsiders. But still one has to eat.”

“One always has to eat,” Malik agreed. He looked from ‘Isa to Hasan. “Would you consider a different kind of apprenticeship?”

Hasan and ‘Isa exchanged glances. “You want us to be Assassins?” Hasan asked.

The Assassin snorted. “Hardly. I want you to stay out of trouble. But I do need an extra pair of hands.” He grimaced. “Hand.”

“You want us to _kill people_?” Isa said.

“I want you to come and train with us. I need you to run errands. Learn our ways. Learn to read. Once you know how, it’s harder to remain ignorant.” Malik shrugged. “Believe it or not, we fight for peace. In all things.”

Hasan was still stuck on the idea of assassination. “Will we have to kill people?”

“Not unless you want to. There are many other tasks.” said Malik. He paused for a moment and added “Though some people need killing.”

“How many people have you assassinated?” ‘Isa was quickly gaining confidence. Hasan braced himself for the answer.

“Me? None.” Malik handed the map to Marîd, who rolled it up with swift, economical movements. “But I have killed a great many men. We do try not to kill people we don’t have to. That tends to worry everyone. That is-he glanced up, “in some ways the idea. Salah-al-din’s sons may squabble with his brother, but they all know they must answer to Assassin knives. It’s the first of our tenets. ‘Stay your blade from the flesh of an innocent.’ We only kill men who deserve to die.”

“Are we innocents?” asked ‘Isa unwisely. 

“I would not say that,” the Assassin said dryly. “You should consider my offer carefully. Take time if you need it. My only condition is that you speak of this to nobody outside this room. I mentioned our first tenet, but in fact it’s one of three. The second tenet commands us to hide in plain sight. Our third is this; _never compromise the Brotherhood_.  This is our Creed. I take this very seriously. Understand?

 Hasan understood very well. “Yes,” he said. ‘Isa nodded.

“We fight for peace, in all things,” Malik continued. “If that requires assassination, so be it. If one death will save the lives of thousands. We fight on behalf of those who have no power and speak for those who have no say. Increase knowledge, increase sorrow. It’s not an easy life.”

“Neither is this,” Hasan rubbed the back of his neck. “I accept.”

Umm Sa’ad sniffed. Hasan wanted very badly to hug her. As it was, she’d have to wait. He wanted to tell her that everything would be all right, but nothing was certain. He felt as though he stood on shifting sand.

“If Hasan’s in,” said ‘Isa, “then I am in too.”

“Probationary,” the Assassin said.

“Probationary.” Hasan agreed.

The Assassin nodded. “Any more questions?”

Hasan had many questions, but none he wished to ask right now.

As they all got up to leave Hasan jostled against the white-robed boy. Beneath his hooded robe, the boy had lighter skin and oddly curly hair. He curled his lip at Hasan and brushed sand from his robe. “You should have bargained,” he muttered

“You should have found them sooner, Marîd,” said Malik from the other side of the room.

“Sorry, _dai,_ ” said the boy, shooting Hasan a glare that left Hasan in no doubt that the boy considered this all Hasan’s fault.

Hasan didn’t get a chance to answer, because then the door to his grandmother’s house swung open to reveal a thick-set man with a barrel chest and a dark beard that covered the lower half of his face. He wore a sword at his belt and his hands on his hips. He shook his cowled head. Even beneath the beard. Hasan could see that he was scowling.

“Malik,” he demanded, “what are you up to?”

The Assassin smiled. “Lady,” he said, inclining his head towards Umm Sa’ad, “novices, and recruits, this is Abbas Sofian, _rafiq_ of the Assassin’s Order within Jerusalem. How was Damascus, Abbas?”

Abbas scowled. “Bloody,” he said. “Though I think by now al-Adil has it all under control. What is this, Malik? What are you doing?”

Malik shrugged. “I have yet to decide. Though I have some novices for you.”

Abbas narrowed his eyes. “Malik, what are you up to?”

The explanation took some time. Abbas glowered and grumbled through it all. He seemed none to happy to be saddled with a pair of untested new recruits. His displeasure alarmed Hasan a little, though at least Abbas seemed more straightforward than Malik. To everyone’s surprise, including, Hasan suspected, his own, Abbas got on well with Umm Sa’ad. By the time the lengthy tale was over Umm Sa’ad had promised to cook for Abbas and any of his men he cared to bring with him whenever he needed it, and wash their laundry too, at-she said, giving the Assassins’ white robes a sly glance, a very reasonable price.    

‘Isa made his excuses and slipped away. He did not say goodbye. They both knew they’d see each other soon. The Assassins went out into the courtyard, where they stood embroiled in something that seemed half conversation and half argument. Umm Sa’ad started scrubbing pots. Hasan slipped out through the door in case she noticed that he was still there and recruited him too. Cleaning pots seemed a very dull way to end a busy day.

The Assassins stood in the centre of the courtyard, white robes stained gold in the light of the lamp. The youngest Assassin, the one Malik had named Marîd, gave Hasan a wary glance. Neither Malik nor Abbas gave any sign that they had seen him, though Hasan was sure that they had noticed.

Abbas scratched his beard. His fingers scraped audibly through the stubble. “For the love of God,” he said. “I need a bath. Couldn’t you have waited to tell me this, Malik? The Order doesn’t need light-fingered thieves.”

Malik shrugged. “The Order needs more loyal men. It doesn’t matter where you begin. Marîd- he jerked his head towards the boy, “was a Templar. Kadar and I were shepherds. It’s where you end that matters. Of course, there are exceptions. As I recall, you were a blacksmith’s son. Look at you now. Still forging your way through problems. No finesse.”

“You’d have made a terrible shepherd. Too busy thinking. All your sheep would run away.”

“Sometimes I think my role is not so different now.” Malik said wryly. “Sheep would have been easier.”

Despite their words, neither man’s voice held any serious objection. Hasan had the feeling that they’d had the same well-worn argument a dozen times.  He found his voice. “You’re really going to let us join?”

“Malik thinks so,” said Abbas, eying Hasan speculatively. “Though I do enjoy proving him wrong.”

“If you wish,” the other Assassin said, ignoring Abbas.

Hasan couldn’t think of anything he had ever wanted more. “We swore an oath, didn’t we?”

“It may not be what you think,” said Malik.

“It’s got to be better than joining the Banu Sasan!”

The Assassins exchanged glances. “It’s a choice,” Malik said. “You’ll be students, not even novices. You’ll have to earn your way into the Brotherhood. Don’t agree to anything until you know just what we offer. Just come and train. That’s all we offer.”

Abbas snorted. “That’s all very well, Malik, but next time could you recruit somebody with a little more muscle? These two look half-starved. They’ll snap in two the first time they try to wield a blade.”

“I’ll train hard,” Hasan promised.

“You’ll have to.” Malik said. “I’m leaving you and your friend in Abbas’ care, Hasan. Don’t worry. Despite appearances, he’s not as bad as he seems, and there’s no better man to teach you how to fight.”

“We’ll do our best,” Hasan promised.

“You’ll need to,” said the Assassin.  He turned away. “Tomorrow morning after the dawn prayer. Meet Abbas at the training field where you stole the map. Don’t be late.” 

Hasan watched them eagerly as they went off down the street, still arguing.

The sound of clattering pots drifted through the arched doorway behind him. Hasan skirted the sound and went up on the roof, where he hoped Umm Sa’ad would not find him until the dishes were all done. He flopped down on his back on the warm mud-brick roof, picking a strand of hay to chew from the fraying brickwork as he listened to chirping crickets, creaking roof-tops and the sound of distant music as the city drowsed around him. Above his head stretched the vault of heaven.

Hasan searched his soul, and found he was content. He wouldn’t have to join the _Banu Sasan_ , or the _Awlad al-Harb_ , or rob little old ladies, and he doubted that Assassins had their fingers chopped off by al-Afdal’s city guards. The Assassins offered something better than poverty and privation, or at least something different. Education. A more interesting life. Hasan loved Jerusalem, but he wanted a chance to travel outside the city’s walls.

_Let’s see_ , he thought, _what tomorrow brings_.

He crooked an arm behind his head, and gazed up at the stars.

 

****

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: The idea for this fic was basically ‘Assassin’s Creed meets John Wick,” but the prompt author wanted a humorous story, so I basically stole all the bits where everybody’s like ‘you stole what from who?’ and left out all the shootings.
> 
> Title is from al-Masudi’s history ‘From the Meadows of Gold and Mines of Gems’ written approx. 947
> 
> ya khara-you shit
> 
> ya kalb-you dog
> 
> sitt-granny
> 
> hafid-grandson
> 
> harisa-a sort of porridgelike stew
> 
> Kurds: a nomadic ethnic minority spread through Syria, Iran, Iraq, and Turkey. Notable Kurds include the great sultan Salah-al-Din. Despite this, Kurds seem to have a reputation in medieval Arabic literature for being wanderers, tricksters, and thieves.
> 
> Tiraz bands: embroidered bands sewn around the sleeves of robes, often stitched with religious inscriptions or markers denoting the robe as a gift of a generous ruler or beneficiary. These eventually became a fashionable accessory.
> 
> Banu Sasan: A group of rogues, vagabonds, poets, and criminals who made up Islam’s medieval underworld. https://www.smithsonianmag.com/history/islams-medieval-underworld-15821520/
> 
> Awlad al-Harb: The name of a street gang. ‘Boys of War’, a homage to Mad Max: Fury Road
> 
> Umm Sa’ad: ‘Mother of Sa’ad’ Hasan ibn Sa’ad: Hasan, son of Sa’ad.
> 
> Umm Yaqub: ‘Mother of Yaqub’ She must have been quite a firebrand in her youth: her son’s name ‘Yaqub ibn Nagira’; means ‘son of the hot-tempered woman’.
> 
> Al-Afdal: One of Salah al-din’s seventeen sons, heir to Salah al-din and emir of much of Syria at this time. Based in Damascus. By all accounts, he was a pretty incompetent emir. Exiled by his brother al-Aziz in 1196, his most notable achievement is trying and failing to demolish the Great Pyramids of Egypt.
> 
> Al-Aziz Uthman: Another of Salah al-din’s sons and emir of Egypt. Spent several years intermittently besieging al-Afdal in Damascus before eventually ousting al-Afdal and proclaiming himself Sultan. Al-Aziz married his uncle al-Adil’s daughter but died in a hunting accident, four years after this story takes place.
> 
> Al-Adil: Salah al-din’s brother. Spent several years following Salah al-din’s death brokering peace between Salah-al-din’s sons while simultaneously undermining their authority and playing them off against each other. He eventually became Sultan in 1202. Malik and Altaïr briefly encounter al-Adil in Egypt on their travels in ‘Both Worlds as their Companion’.


End file.
